


Each Other

by aces



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen, Hypothermia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:51:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aces/pseuds/aces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title comes from Illya's line at the end of “The Deep Six Affair.”  Written in 2009 for sarlania for the Down the Chimney affair on the muncle LJ community.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Each Other

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Illya's line at the end of “The Deep Six Affair.” Written in 2009 for sarlania for the Down the Chimney affair on the muncle LJ community.

Illya woke up.

For a long moment, that was all he did. He sat--or rather, lay--not even aware of himself but aware that something in the consciousness that was him had changed. And then the pain and aches hit, and the heat, and the grogginess and then--oh yes, this was self-awareness, and it wasn't particularly pleasant at the moment. He remembered where he was too. Colorado somewhere. THRUSH. That was it, he'd been on the trail of a satrap and of course they'd captured him. He'd struggled, and they'd subdued him, but otherwise there hadn't been much violence. There had been drugs, though. He distinctly remembered a syringe. Or maybe more than one.

Illya sighed.

UNCLE knew where he was, unless THRUSH had moved him; he'd reported in right before he went into the compound and was detected. He hadn't even discovered exactly what they were up to at this particular installation; UNCLE had heard vague rumors about scientific or medical experiments, but nothing conclusive and concrete. Illya's stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought. Right, so he'd probably just been turned into some sort of guinea pig. Again. Marvelous.

The cell was typical. Illya found this lack of creativity boring, and reminded himself to have words with the management, just as soon as they came down to drug him with something again. He sat up, his hand hovering by the concrete wall in case he needed the extra support. He was surprised and gratified that he didn't really, after the initial dizziness. He attempted standing up next, and though his legs were shakier than he would have liked, they supported him. He paced the cell slowly, trying to waken the strength in his body. It was still too hot, and he still ached, and he kept wondering what the hell they'd put in that syringe. It had knocked him out completely--for how long?

They'd taken away his communicator, his shoes, his belt, his suit jacket, even his money clip. Clever THRUSH, for once. Illya paced the cell and wished they'd left him something. He felt in need of a good explosion. Or at least a fight. Something to do. So he waited and planned and told himself he'd have the strength to overpower whoever came looking for him, even if he still felt shaky right down to his bone marrow.

Thankfully, it was only another hour or three (Illya knew his sense of time warped the more stressed he became) before alarms sounded throughout the building, an explosion knocking him back against the wall. Napoleon burst into the hallway at quite a surprising (and rather pleasing) speed. "Hello," Solo said with admirable breath control as he pulled a small explosive device out of his inside suit pocket and started fixing it the cell lock. "You might want to step back."

"Took you long enough," Illya sniped, heading for the opposite wall. Another stab of dizziness overtook him--had he hit his head when that explosion rocked the building?--and he leaned back against the wall more unsteadily than he would have liked.

"I'm so sorry," Napoleon was at his most mild, "next time I'll attempt to work more toward your schedule." He turned away as the lock started sparking, and then there was a tiny burst of flame, and he kicked the door in. "However, since I'm here now, would you care to join me?"

"Gladly." Illya started jogging across the room and almost immediately stumbled, his head swimming and aching. He righted himself quickly--his partner had probably nonetheless noticed, though he made no comment--and followed Napoleon, who seemed to know exactly where he was going. "Out of curiosity, how long have I been in here? I was caught almost immediately after I reported in."

Napoleon glanced back at him strangely. "You've been here almost a day," he said as they ran down endless, featureless corridors. "I came as quickly as I could, but I was still following up leads in Brisbane. Were you unconscious?"

Illya nodded, saving his breath. He was irritated by how weak he was, by the twitchiness in his limbs and the sparkling in his vision as if he had just run two marathons in a row. It didn't help that his feet kept sliding on the floor, frictionless in their socks. He probably hadn't had any liquid in the past 24 hours either; how much of this was dehydration? "They gave me something," he said after a moment, and he paused to let Napoleon efficiently dispatch with a lone THRUSH guard who happened across them. "Injection," he continued after Napoleon knocked the guard unconscious and they resumed their escape.

Napoleon gave him a sharp look. "Interrogation technique?"

"I think not," Illya said and privately wished they'd get wherever the devil they were going so he could lie down and never move again. "Medical experiment."

Napoleon winced as he kicked open a door. "I saw some of the labs. We'll get you back to Medical as soon as we can."

"Wonderful," Illya said sardonically and then tumbled into the back of the other man when Napoleon stopped moving. They were outside now, the heat even more stifling than it had been in the compound, the sun beating down. What little grass there was was brown; the only buildings visible were the white concrete complex they had just left, and the brown plains stretched out into the horizon in every direction. There was a Jeep sitting nearby. Napoleon caught Illya's elbow and upper arm and kept him upright. He peered into Illya's eyes as if he could somehow intuit a diagnosis from sight alone, and Illya met his gaze in irritation, though he knew that irritation was more directed at himself and his own weakness than Napoleon's play at Omniscient Senior Field Agent. _That_ he was used to.

"Come on," Napoleon said, not acknowledging his partner's grumpiness. He kept a hand on Illya, helping him to the passenger side of the Jeep. "We don't want to stick around; I planted an awful lot of explosives before I found you."

"How is it," Illya asked as Napoleon started the vehicle and reversed in a shower of gravel and dust, "you evaded capture completely while I was almost immediately found and used as a human guinea pig? Again? With which god did you make a bargain, Napoleon?"

"Dionysos," Napoleon said absently, "or maybe it was Hathor. I started by distracting them with an explosion so I would have time to find you. You didn't have that luxury when you were trying to be sneaky."

"How did you know you weren't destroying the exact location where I was hiding?" Illya objected, his head thrown back over the back of the seat. He didn't feel capable of holding it upright; it was too heavy for his neck. It ached abominably, both temples beating in time with his heart, and his skin felt dry, _parched_ , as if it would crack and break off him in pieces. He scratched absently at his arm.

"They only have half a dozen different configurations for these bases," Napoleon pointed out, the Jeep bumping along what had never been a road. He didn't even pause for the loud explosion that seemed to rock the entire countryside, though the Jeep certainly jumped a foot or two in the air. Illya thought about asking Napoleon to find him someplace where he could crawl away and die but decided it was too early to start talking like that. Besides, Napoleon would probably just mock him. "And all the configurations always place the cells in the exact same place," his partner continued the conversation as if nothing had interrupted it. "I wasn't worried."

"I'm so glad." Illya's stomach was roiling again, and he couldn't tell if it was because of the bumpy ride, because he hadn't eaten in well over 24 hours--though the thought of food made him feel even more nauseated--or for some other reason. "Now that we've thoroughly demolished the base--"

"We?"

"I'm so sorry. Now that _you_ have thoroughly demolished the base--and without a single mark on your suit, I congratulate you--would you mind slowing down? I think I might be sick."

"Carsick?" Napoleon snorted. "Illya, you don't _get_ car sick."

"Nevertheless." Illya hunched down further in his seat. "Ohhh."

Napoleon slowed the vehicle down, idled it. "Illya?" He actually sounded concerned. Illya would have been touched, had he not felt so wretched. "Do you have any idea what they injected you with?"

"If I did," Illya sounded both plaintive and withering, "don't you think I would have said something by now? They didn't really talk to me, nor did they give me much of a chance to ask questions. Particularly after I started trying to kill them. And after they subdued me."

"I know the routine," Napoleon assured him. "How do you feel?"

"Do you really want me to answer that question?"

"Illya." The authoritative tone, the sharp look again. There were times Illya found his partner's role of Omniscient Senior Field Agent quite aggravating.

"Headache, nausea, dizziness, light-headedness," Illya ticked off his symptoms. Or he attempted to; his fingers weren't cooperating precisely, and he worried his words were slurred because his tongue felt so thick and heavy. He decided not to mention the way he could feel his heart racing, hollowing out his chest. He'd had plenty of time in that cell to consider what they could have done to him but he had not let it overpower him because he still had to escape. Now he had escaped, and he was still thinking about what they could have done. "Weak. I hate feeling weak," he went on and paused. "I wish I hadn't just said that."

Napoleon sounded wry. "Are you _sure_ it wasn't some truth serum?"

Illya considered. "Yes," he said at last. "I was unconscious almost the entire time I was in that satrap; I can't imagine they could have made me talk in my sleep."

"You don't talk in your sleep," Napoleon conceded, moving the Jeep forward again, but at a more sedate pace this time. "You kick."

"Self-preservation reflex," Illya said, and now he _knew_ he was slurring. "Oh, damn. Why am _I_ always the one who gets drugged?"

"You're not," Napoleon protested. "I'm sure it must be fifty/fifty."

"More like eighty/twenty," Illya groused. He looked out over the unappetizing landscape around them, squinting against the blazing sun. Brown, brown, and more brown, with the occasional spot of yellow. Whenever the air moved, it kicked up dust. Illya could feel it settling against his skin, his already dried and flaking skin, and it made him itch. He resisted the urge to scratch his arm again. Napoleon must be even unhappier than he; Solo had always preferred skiing in Aspen to the Colorado plains. "Are those really tumbleweeds, or am I hallucinating?"

"Have you been hallucinating?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Illya said, "but I'm not really the person to ask for an unbiased opinion on the matter, am I? Why are you stopping again?"

"So I can get a proper look at you." Napoleon had pulled up in front of an abandoned farmhouse; it was the only sign of civilization around them as far as Illya could see. Not that he could see very far; the sun was still blinding as he squinted, and his eyes hurt, and he couldn't seem to focus them on anything. Not even Napoleon, who was turned to look at him in the driver's seat, his hands still on the wheel.

"And how exactly will looking help?"

"Don't worry, I won't stop there." He took one hand off the wheel to feel Illya's forehead. "Hell, Illya, you're burning up."

"I am?" Illya put the back of his hand to his own forehead. "Oh my, I am." He dropped his hand and tried to concentrate on it, but his vision kept wavering, seeming to zoom in and then back out so that his hand grew larger and smaller very quickly. He closed his eyes dizzily. "Napoleon, I don't feel at all well."

"You're certainly complaining more than you usually do."

"Was that really called for?"

"Yes." Illya heard Napoleon jump out of the Jeep and pull something out of the back. "Come on, let's get you inside."

"Inside there? What purpose will that serve?"

"I want to try to get you stabilized before I move you any more. And I don't want you throwing up all over the place and ruining my suit, which so far has remained unscathed, as you yourself pointed out."

"Really, Napoleon," Illya grumbled, "I have a little more self-control than that."

"You're looking awfully green right now, Illya. And we're not even moving anymore."

"Hmph." Illya finally opened his eyes and fumbled with the door. Napoleon got there first, opening it for him and holding out a hand to help him down. Illya didn't even bother trying to brush him off. It was not as if he'd had any pride to begin with.

"That's the idea, Illya," Napoleon said, and Illya realized in surprise that he must have spoken that last thought aloud. That realization worried him more than anything else; above all, he hated losing that particular form of self-control the most. "Who needs pride anyway?"

"You, for one."

"Not right now I don't." Napoleon sounded grim as he pushed Illya into the farmhouse. The interior was pleasantly dark, but it was still stifling, the air not moving at all.

"I'm not sure this will help, Napoleon," Illya said, sinking to the floor and leaning against a helpfully-near-by wall. "It's still too hot."

"I know, I'm trying to fix that." Napoleon had brought in a large duffel bag; he disappeared outside to bring in another. "I managed to come prepared for once."

"Astonishing," Illya remarked.

"You could try to remember who you're talking to once in a while," Napoleon said.

"You never let me forget," Illya retorted and held his stomach. He'd had the occasional migraine; this was possibly even worse.

"Illya." Again that concern, and that irritated Illya too because usually Napoleon knew better than to show it. "Try to relax."

"Could I but do so." Illya thought about the symptoms he'd listed off in the Jeep. Something was trying to make a connection in his brain, but the synapses kept misfiring. He kept his eyes closed and tried to think. If he couldn't see the world tilting and spinning around him, it felt a little less like it was doing so.

"Illya." Napoleon's voice was dark and jagged, like the Rocky Mountains they couldn't actually see from here, being so far east. "Stay with me."

"I'm still here." Illya waved a hand vaguely. "Trying to think."

"In your condition?"

"Very funny." Suddenly it clicked. "Oh, _hell_." He started cursing softly in Russian.

"What? Illya, what is it?"

"I just realized what I've got. Or at least, what condition they were attempting to replicate."

*

"Don't keep me in suspense," Napoleon said, staring at his partner. He took off his suit jacket, placed his cufflinks in the inner pocket next to some of the extra explosives he had, folded it and neatly stashed it on a chair after wiping it down. Then he rolled up his shirtsleeves. He needed to report in soon, let Mr. Waverly know he'd successfully destroyed the THRUSH base and rescued the other Enforcement agent. But he wanted to _do_ something for Illya first, if at all possible.

"Heatstroke." Illya's voice had been fading ever since they came inside; Napoleon stepped closer and knelt down next to his partner so he could hear him now. "That's what they've done, I don't know if that's what they wanted. Why'm so hot. Not sweating. Dry, flushed skin. Everything else. Fits."

"How do I treat heatstroke? I have acetaminophen in a medical kit--"

"No," Illya cut him off. "No good. Bad. Water. Cool. Need to cool down. Slowly."

When he was reduced to two-word sentences, Napoleon knew it wasn't good. He turned back to the duffels. "Okay," he said. "Water we can do. Maybe. _Damn_." He stood up and started moving about the downstairs rooms of the farmhouse, methodically searching. "There has got to be a bathroom in this place," he said. He hadn't noticed an outhouse amidst the cluster of buildings around the house, but surely it had been updated with modern conveniences before being abandoned. Probably in the '30s, judging by all the damned dust everywhere.

Napoleon had never been overly fond of this part of the country. Certainly not in the middle of a stifling July.

There was no bathroom downstairs, but there was a large tub in the kitchen. Napoleon debated pulling it into the other room or carrying Illya to it and decided Illya would be the lighter one to manhandle, if also the grumpier. He went back into the front room and grabbed the first duffel, glancing at Illya, who was still slumped against the wall by the front door, looking dusty and hot. They'd left him his shirt and trousers and socks, not even his tie. No wonder he was so irritated. There was little Illya hated more than being without resources.

Napoleon took the duffel into the kitchen and pulled out a blanket in order to clean out the tub. He'd filled the two bags with as many practical necessities as he could think of, unsure what he'd find and whether they'd have to do any camping out. He started pulling out the bottles of water he'd brought with him. They were still cool, not particularly cold, which apparently was better in any case. It was a start.

He pulled out his communicator pen as he poured. "Open Channel D," he said. He reported in to Mr. Waverly and requested backup. "And sir?" he added just before he signed off. "Please hurry."

"But of course, Mr. Solo," Mr. Waverly said.

Napoleon went back into the other room. "Don't make me carry you," he said to the slumped figure.

"Don't tempt me," Illya said darkly, and Napoleon actually laughed. He held out his hand. Illya gripped his arm near the shoulder and hauled himself upright; he would have staggered back down again had Napoleon not grabbed him with his other hand and held him up. Solo could feel him shaking, the heat radiating off him like a furnace. Napoleon felt his own heart clench, irritatingly.

"C'mon," he said. "Bath time. Sorry I didn't bring your rubber ducky."

"I'll try to survive somehow." Illya's voice was faint again, but he walked with only some help from his partner. Napoleon stopped him in the kitchen doorway in order to unbutton his shirt. Illya stood there, frowning down at Napoleon's fingers on his shirt in disinterested confusion. "Trousers," Solo ordered. "I didn't bring you any spare clothes, and there's no point in getting what you have on sopping wet."

"How prudent of you," Illya remarked, stepping out of his trousers and wriggling out of his socks. He eased himself into the tin bath, wearing only his boxers, and sighed deeply.

"Is it helping?"

"How the devil would I know? I just got in." Illya closed his eyes. "I suppose I should apologize."

"Don't." Napoleon knelt next to the bath, grabbing the blanket and searching for a relatively dust-free, clean section. He cut that piece off with his knife, damping it with some more water and laying it on Illya's forehead. Illya slumped even lower in the bath. "What else should we expect? I know heatstroke's worse than heat exhaustion, but you'll have to forgive my lack of knowledge on the subject."

"Hyperthermia," Illya said. "The opposite of hypothermia. I think I've had that one too. How symmetrical of me."

"Focus," Solo commanded. "How bad is this going to get?"

"It depends on how quickly we can get my internal body temperature regulated." Even Illya sounded mildly surprised that he'd managed to say that entire sentence. "You're right about it being worse. Drink?"

"Save some for me." Napoleon handed him the last bottle; he hoped there was at least one more in the other duffel.

"Don't be selfish," Illya said and took a conservative sip. "You're not the one liable to go into a coma."

Napoleon took the bottle back from his partner. "Worse case scenario?"

"I lose consciousness, have a seizure, and there's permanent brain damage and organ failure." Illya smiled mirthlessly without opening his eyes. "Doesn't it sound exciting?"

Sometimes, Illya's gallows humor was mostly annoying. "Less than worse case scenario?"

Illya was quiet for a moment. "There's a sudden hailstorm you can drag me into?"

Napoleon rubbed his brow. He could allow himself that much, particularly since Illya wasn't looking. _Why do we do this to ourselves_ , he found himself asking sometimes in these sorts of moments. _I could throw in the towel and let somebody else deal with it all_. The problem was, he never believed himself when he thought like that. He had the sneaking suspicion that if Illya ever had those thoughts, he didn't believe them either. "How long?" he asked at last, allowing himself a moment for a deep, sustaining breath.

He looked up in time to see Illya's disinterested shrug. "Who can say? This is not a natural condition, don't forget; knowing THRUSH, they've played with the symptoms, tried to speed the process up. They are tediously underhanded like that."

"Yes," Napoleon said, "they are. Well, I called for backup; somebody should be coming from Denver."

"How thrilling." Illya's voice was a murmur again. His head had dropped forward.

"Stay with me, Illya," Napoleon commanded.

"Tired," Illya said. "Very tired."

"I know you are. It's been a very long day." Napoleon put his hand to Illya's forehead again, removing the damp cloth. "Dammit, Illya, the water's supposed to be helping."

"Isn't it?"

"Not that I can tell."

"Ah." The Russian slumped a little lower; Napoleon wondered if he'd have to catch him before he slid all the way under the water, though the bath wasn't that full. "I did say. Didn't I?"

"About this being drug-induced and therefore more unpredictable? Yes."

"Oh good. Wondered. Not sure what I've said aloud, what not. Worrying."

"I think they _were_ attempting to make a truth serum," Napoleon said.

"Silly," Illya replied. "Can barely talk. What would be the point?"

Napoleon put the freshly-dampened piece of blanket back on Illya's head in lieu of a response.

"Hurts," Illya said after a moment.

"What does?"

His partner scrunched his nose. "Everything."

"Are you going to start whining now?" Napoleon asked. "Don't forget you're in Section Two. You have a certain image to uphold."

"Why? You're the only one here. You uphold the image." Napoleon held the cloth to his partner's forehead when it would have fallen off. He looked down and found Illya holding two fingers over his own left wrist. He was checking his pulse, Solo realized. "Rapid, thready pulse still. Been like that since I woke up. Partly a fear response, of course."

Napoleon's free hand clenched into a fist. He made himself relax it. "Must you be so clinical?"

Illya shifted his head so he could blink up at his partner. Solo rearranged the cloth, looking at it instead of into the other man's eyes. "Of course I must," Illya said simply, and Napoleon didn't even bother nodding. Of course he must. One of his particular coping mechanisms, his way to control and channel any fear or other emotion that might get in his way and the way of the mission. Frankly, it irritated the hell out of Solo.

Of course, that was Solo's response to fear, to his own helplessness at being unable to rectify a situation that was completely out of his or Kuryakin's control. Get angry and channel that anger into doing something useful and productive. He knew it, had gained that self-knowledge even before he became an UNCLE agent. Knowing it, however, no longer calmed him the way it used to. It just made him more irritated.

"Were you able to discover anything at all about the complex before you were captured?"

Illya shook his head, almost imperceptibly, drooping some more. His skin wasn't as flushed as it had been, but he was still burning up. Solo gave him another sip of water. "I found the place, I reported that I was heading in, I started exploring and was almost immediately caught by two guards. Two _particularly_ burly guards, mind you."

"But of course." Solo dipped the cloth in the water to wet it again before placing it back on Illya's forehead. "I definitely think it was the new medical experimental complex we'd been hearing rumors about for the past couple months."

"Oh yes? And what gave you that idea?" Kuryakin's voice positively dripped with sarcasm.

"You," Napoleon said, not rising to the bait. "And what I learned in Brisbane. Would you like to hear about that?"

"Another time." Illya's voice lost all the strength it had so recently regained.

"Here. Drink some more." Napoleon held the water bottle up to his partner's mouth. Illya swallowed with some difficulty. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired. Very tired." Illya's head lolled backward, and Napoleon caught the back of his skull before it could crack against the bath. He abruptly realized Illya had fallen into speaking Russian instead of English.

"Illya." Napoleon scooted closer in, staring hard at his partner's face. " _Illya_. Wake up." He gently, gently shook Illya's head. Tapped his cheek. "Wake up." Illya didn't respond, and Solo was suddenly aware of his own racing pulse. He could hear something approaching, something mechanical, and hoped it was the cavalry and not the bad guys. "Illya. Help is on the way, so you don't have to go unconscious now. Illya!" Still the Russian didn't respond. " _Dammit_ , Illya!"

It was a chopper. Napoleon marveled at that; Mr. Waverly must actually have been concerned. But then, the Old Man was always efficient. "I didn't know you cared," Illya murmured so softly Napoleon almost missed the words. But no, he'd definitely heard them, and he slumped a little in his relief. It was still allowable; Kuryakin had his eyes closed. "Helicopter?" the Russian went on, still in that faint murmur that Solo somehow managed to hear over the chopper blades outside. "Mr Waverly isn't going to like the expense."

"Don't worry," Napoleon assured him as a medic ran into the room to help him lift Illya into a stretcher and onto the chopper, "I'm sure he'll take it out of your paycheck."

"Ha," said Illya before slipping back into unconsciousness. He always had to have the last word.

*

There was a knock on the door.

Illya rolled his eyes. He didn't know why his partner bothered, when he had a key to the apartment. Perhaps it was a matter of being polite. He left the kitchen where he had been fetching a glass of water and opened the front door. "We don't want any," he said.

"Ahh, but you haven't heard about our fabulous door prizes," Napoleon responded as he slipped inside past his partner. He was dressed for a casual weekend, no tie, no suit jacket, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. It amused Illya. But then, he was still in his dressing gown. He felt he could allow himself the luxury, considering Mr. Waverly had categorically refused to allow him back on duty until Monday, and he was still tired. His body was still getting used to regulating his internal temperature too, which kept spiking or plunging. Right now he was cold, and the dressing gown was warm and comfortable.

"Would you care for some water?" Illya asked. "Or perhaps some milk? Those are the only things I can offer you at the moment, I'm afraid. I refuse to serve you vodka since I probably shouldn't have any."

Napoleon gave him a look, but Illya was unrepentant. "Water would be just fine, thank you."

Illya went into the kitchen again. When he came back out, Napoleon was sitting on the couch. "Well? How goes the world at the moment?" Illya asked as he handed the other man a glass of water.

"Empires toppling, unions fighting the Man, revolutions happening around every corner," Napoleon replied. "And everybody in Translation got a raise."

"Figures." Illya sat down next to Napoleon on the couch. "It's probably because they're not forever submitting claims forms for clothing repair and replacement."

"The hazards of the exciting lives we lead," Napoleon said. "How are you feeling?"

"Better. Particularly now that I'm out of the hospital." Illya leaned back on the couch. "I do so despise being stuck in hospital."

"I hadn't noticed." Napoleon's tone was so dry they could almost have been back in that stifling Colorado sun, and Illya inadvertently shuddered at the memory of lying uselessly in that tin bath. He hoped Napoleon didn't notice. "You'll be back in shape for work on Monday?"

Illya scoffed wordlessly. "Must you ask such ridiculous questions, Napoleon?"

"Yes, partner mine," Napoleon said, "sometimes I must."

Illya gave him a long look. "What are you up to?"

"Who says I'm up to anything?"

"When aren't you?"

Napoleon smiled a little. "You may have a point," he conceded. "I'm merely checking up on my Number Two. What any good senior field agent would do."

Illya narrowed his eyes. _Not_ the Omniscient Senior Field Agent again, especially when they were not in the field. "Another mission, another near-death experience?" Illya hazarded. Napoleon blinked at him. Illya sighed. "Must we?"

"Noo," Napoleon considered, "but rather here and now than later?"

"Perhaps I _should_ break out the vodka."

"Not with the medications they've got you on," said Napoleon.

"Mere details."

Napoleon sipped his water and looked at his partner steadily over the glass. Illya huddled back against the back of the sofa and wrapped his dressing gown around himself more firmly. "Can we agree never to discuss the bath in the kitchen again?" he said with a glare.

"Wounded pride, is it?" Napoleon asked delicately.

Illya's eyes narrowed even further. "Something like that, yes."

He'd said things he wouldn't normally say out loud. He had been weak, useless. _Napoleon_ had shown his concern when he shouldn't have. Unprofessional, and Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin prided himself on his professionalism.

Napoleon set the glass down on the coffee table with unnecessary firm deliberation. "We live to fight another day," he said when he'd finished, looking up to meet his partner's eye.

"Yes," Illya said. "We do."

Napoleon nodded once after studying his partner, satisfied with Illya's answer. "The tin bath will never be mentioned again," Solo said as he rose and headed for the front door. "I'll make sure the report is filed _deep_ in the record vaults."

Illya's lips quirked into a grin, and he remained seated. He felt a little warmer now, perhaps more for Napoleon's visit than because his body was figuring out what the devil it was supposed to do again. "Thank you, Napoleon, I appreciate it," he said.

Napoleon turned back to him as he opened the door, his hand still on the knob. "Take care, Illya. I expect to see you first thing Monday morning."

"I shall be there with bells on." Napoleon raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps not bells," Illya conceded. "And hopefully no tracking devices."

"Unless they're ones we planted on you," Napoleon agreed.

Illya raised his own eyebrows. "I shall check all my suits directly after you leave," he said.

"Then I should be on my way. Good day, Illya."

"Good day, Napoleon."

END


End file.
